Think You Know Erik?
by The Nightingale's Song
Summary: A gentle mockery of phans myself included who think they understand Erik.  Much as we may love him, we need to remember he is an extremely enigmatic soul who will never be fully understood.  In this piece, yours truly is reminded of this.  Please enjoy


**Think You Know Erik?**

Erik nudged the girl in the back with the tip of his shoe. He was not surprised another one had shown up. It had been roughly a week since he'd welcomed a visitor of her kind, but the other ones had at least been awake. He could not tell if this one was unconscious or merely sleeping. Perhaps she was even dead. That would certainly cut the evening short.

One more swift kick and her eyes fluttered open.

"What the hell?" she mumbled drowsily, reaching about her as if seeking a sheet or pillow to pull over her head. Finding only moist, rocky ground, she sat up and regarded the man before her.

Intense fear shortly followed by realization filled her brown eyes.

"Oh my God!" she blurted. "Are you Erik?"

Erik sighed. He was growing rather bored with this ordeal—always the same thing: girl arrives, girl is astounded, girl grows disappointed with him, as if they expected him to be different. It always ended the same way, as well.

"Yes, I am Erik. And you, I suspect, are one of those damnable phangirls from the future?"

By some great miracle, Chelsey understood his faultless French, and he her rapid English.

She burst into mirthful giggles.

_He's so cold_, she thought to herself, _and perfect. _She wanted to gush about how much she loved him, and how great she thought he was, but she knew he would never like her if she came off so tacky and generic.

"Yes," she said seriously, attempting to sound jaded, "I guess I am. You mean you get a lot of those down here?"

Erik was disappointed that his caustic comment had not affected her but replied, "More than you might think. And so many of them the same! All named Raven or something akin to it. And all either bursting with excitement at meeting me—though God knows why—or attempting to seem dark and wounded, as if to impress me."

_Damn_.

"Always one step ahead," Chelsey commented somewhat reproachfully. "I should have known."

"I assume there is much you don't know of me." The girl flinched, as if wanting to object, but reconsidered and fell silent. "What is your name, then?" he asked.

"Chelsey." Although she was aware of his distaste for giddiness, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest and breaths quickening. She was here, in the cellars of the Opéra Garnier! Erik, the object of her admiration for so long, stood mere feet away from her!

"Get off the ground, Chelsey, or you'll catch cold."

_He cares!_

She obeyed. Standing before him, she was immediately struck with the intense sensual power of his presence, not to mention his singular height. She suddenly felt very small, juvenile, and out of place.

"So. Uh...how are things with Christine?" It occurred to her too late that perhaps she'd arrived after their separation.

Erik stiffened and turn away from her sharply, clock swirling about him. He wanted very badly to strike her...but what purpose would that serve?

_May as well deliver her dream while she is capable of experiencing it._

"Would you like to see my home?" he asked, cordiality overshadowing the true terseness in his tone. He turned back to Chelsey.

"Yeah," she replied, blushing crimson due to the obvious discomfort she'd just caused him.

As the pair walked from the lake to the house, Erik regarded Chelsey with surreptitious sidelong glances. She had dark brown curly hair and thick eyeglasses, seemingly of mulatto descent. Although she attempted to be inconspicuous, he could feel her observing him as well.

They entered the drawing room, and he heard her gasp. "Oh...It's just like I've imagined it. Are you sure this isn't a dream?"

"Quite certain, mademoiselle. Quite."

"Erik"—what a thrill it produced to address him!—"Can I see your room?"

_They usually want to._

"Very well."

As Chelsey took in the bedroom—the piano occupying an entire length of wall, the music notes on the walls, and the centerpiece, the coffin—she was overwhelmed by the morbidity of it all. She closed her eyes and instinctively shrank toward the door. She'd never considered herself a very light or cheerful person, but this—it was just so much, the coffin, especially.

Erik set his concealed lips into a grim smile. "Ah, Mademoiselle Chelsey, you once thought us to be kindred spirits. But you simply cannot fathom my uncanny penchant for death, can you? We're not so similar after all, are we?"

Chelsey felt ill at ease, what with her surroundings and the sinister tone Erik's beautiful voice had adopted. She did not reply.

"Oh, come along," he said, his tone suddenly amiable and friendly. "I see this room upsets you. Come see the torture chamber. No visit is complete without a look at it."

She nodded hesitantly, giving the bedroom one last glance over her shoulder before Erik shut its door.

"Erik," she said suddenly as they made their way down a dimly lit corridor, "what happened to the other girls from the future who've visited you?"

He was silent for a beat before replying, "They went home, Chelsey."

"They went back to their time?"

_In a manner of speaking._

He did not reply.

Feeling nervous because of his silence, she spewed forth other questions, "Well, since I'll never have this chance again, I want to ask you, did Gaston Leroux make the whole book up? How much of it was true? How much of Susan Kay's portrayal of your past is accurate?"

"Mademoiselle, though I would love to answer your burning questions, I'm afraid we've reached the torture chamber. Won't you step inside? I promise to reply to your queries after you've laid eyes on this hallmark of my genius."

She smirked at his eloquence—not to mention his lack of humility—as she stepped within the chamber. Its walls were lined only with mirrors; dozens of her own reflection gazed contentedly back at her.

With a grin, Chelsey turned to offer her praise to Erik, but was surprised to find he was gone. The entrance to the chamber seemed to have disappeared.

"Erik?" she said timidly, not wishing to appear foolish. Her hands frantically felt along where the doorway had been.

There was a low rumble, and the room began to feel quite hot.

_Oh, shit._

"Erik!" she called out, pretenses abandoned. "I understand; you're a genius! Please let me out!"

Her only reply was a mocking, lunatic cackle that seemed to come from within her very own mind.

The chamber was now insufferably hot, and her surroundings had morphed into a jungle setting. "No! This isn't real!"

"I'm afraid it is," came his voice, falsely doleful.

"Erik," she cried, falling to her knees. "I thought you were kind. I thought you had a big heart...or whatever that quote was..."

"My dear mademoiselle," he replied, "I can be the most loving human being you'll ever meet, when you are _someone that I care for_. But your, and your kin? You are little more than annoyances. Goodnight, Mademoiselle Chelsey. Rest assured that you've met the true Erik."

Erik took one more look at the girl through the window. He shook his head mournfully.

"I shall have to write yet another requiem."

----

Chelsey sat up in bed, predictably covered in a cold sweat.

"Whoa!" she exclaimed aloud. "_That _was messed up. So the man who killed me is the very same man who I—and so, _so_ many others—is obsessed with?"

She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I should rethink this fixation," she wondered aloud.

Suddenly, reason caught up with her. "Oh, what am I saying? Erik would never do that to _me_! I _understand_ him."

Chelsey fell into a blissful, untroubled sleep.

_Fin_


End file.
